


Mr. Officer

by empires



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Capes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: Mr. Officer, Mister Officer, bet you wish I'd change your name to Mr. Todd-Harper, huh?Bastardized lyrics aside, I swore I'd only do one fic for Joydick weekend, and then I saw thisfabulous artwork by crow-sinza. No promise could stand up to that kind of glory. Special thanks to salvadore for fleshing out the idea.





	1. Chapter 1

A strong kick sends the oak doors of Club 276’s office exploding open. Roy Harper strides through dragging a struggling body beside him.

“None of that,” Roy snarls, a determined scowl on his face. “You said you wanted to see the boss, so I’m taking you to see the boss.”

The office feels like an oasis from the flashing lights and blaring club music. The sounds are muffled and when the door slams shut, it’s completely silent.  The room is long and narrow with bare walls, expensive furniture, and a heavy desk on the opposite wall. The desk chair turns slowly revealing Jason Todd, the room’s sole occupant and the club's proprietor. He stares at the commotion disturbing his peace, handsome face is devoid of emotion.

Lately, there’s always been an issue. This young man with a pretty face and a tight body poured into GPD blues isn’t what he was expecting. Jason takes a final swig from his Choke can while Roy shove the trembling officer closer.

“What did I tell you about slamming my doors, Harper?” Of course, Roy ignores him.

“Look what I found sneaking around outside, boss.”

Roy pushes the guy again and again, bullying him over the plush rug to the edge of the desk. The cop’s shoulders curl inward, and he shakes like each brush of Roy’s hands is bruising him. No anger in his blue eyes, only fear. A rookie, maybe. Jason shakes his head before waving them closer.

“I can’t believe GPD is this desperate."

“Cops are stupid boss,” says Roy. “You’d think the whole audit thing would’ve finally convinced them, but no. They just can’t believe you run a legitimate business.”

“Please,” the officer whisper. “Please, I’m telling you. This isn’t what it looks like.”

Roy sneers. "Yeah? Then why don’t you explain these." He tosses something on Jason's desk that lands with a metal clink. Another item lands beside it. Handcuffs and radio with a shoulder mic. Jason nudges them with a pen.

"These look like police issue," Jason says with professional certainty. “What’s your name, kid? Officer…?”

The kid blinks at him. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, a nervous gesture. “It’s Ric. Without the k,” he whispers, but all Jason can see is the shine coating his plump lip.

“Things aren’t looking pretty good for you right now, Officer Ric. Without the k.”

"I know, I know, but uh, sir?" Ric glances back at Roy when he laughs, then turns back to Jason. “I’m not a cop.” He says it quietly, voice soft, meek, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“Then explain the handcuffs.”

“Some people want the authenticity, so I went down to the consignment shop in Bludhaven. Look.” Ric reaches behind him. The movement is halted by Roy snatching his wrist and dragging the arm up.

“Not so fast, pretty boy,” Roy whispers, darkly.

“Shit, shit, shit. Please. I was just reaching for my other set. In the pouch. Please.” Ric stumbles over his feet and over his words and glances at Jason pleadingly.

Jason nods to Roy over his shoulder. Another pair of handcuffs land on the desk. They're plastic with pink fur around the clamps.

"What the fuck?" Roy grumbles.

"I'm telling you guys, I’m a stripper. I  _swear_ ,” Ric pleads.

Jason pushes up from his seat. He’s not much taller than Ric, but he feels like an absolute monster when Ric cringes. He snaps his fingers, and Roy immediately drops the pressure.

The Red Hoods didn’t get this far by making being anything but cautious. He tried to eliminate issues early and avoid all mistakes. That didn’t mean they were made from time to time though. Officer Ric here looks like an issue and a mistake, a twofer. Taking corrective action won’t be too hard. Strippers like cash after all, but there’s more to this story, Jason’s sure of it.

He reaches for Ric’s hand, pausing before they touch.

“Hey. Can I?” He waits out Ric’s incredulous stare that turns confused and then wary. Ric nods hesitantly. Jason sits at the end of the desk and draws Ric closer. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? You got a job at the club or something? Did someone send you here?”

Ric nods again, shyly, eyes following the soothing motion of Jason's fingers on his wrist.

“Yeah. I figured. Did you get a name, sweetheart?” Jason watches the blush rise over his bronzed skin. The guy really is too pretty to be a cop. He doesn’t know how Roy missed it.

Ric shakes his head. “I just. It came in through the site and. I’m here.”

Roy curses. “I bet it was Roman. That sonovabitch. He wants a war and doesn’t give a fuck about collateral damage.”

“I’m a business man, Harper. A businessman doesn’t go to war.” He glances back at Ric. “Look, sweetheart, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding. My friend here is gonna escort you back to the front door. But before you go, tell me your rate, and I’ll multiply the number by five.” He grins at the shock blooming over that pretty face.

“Oh. Oh no, sir, I couldn’t.”

Jason disagrees. “You can and you should. For the inconvenience.”

“It’s too much. It really is.”

“You’re a strong negotiator. How about ten times your rate?”

Ric shakes his head so quickly his hat goes askew. The little bobby pin holding it in place falls to the ground. That cinches it in Jason’s mind. He’s not here to terrorize Gotham. He’s here to save her and her people. Even the prettiest stripper who is so honest, he doesn’t seem to know what’s good for him.

“You’re arguing yourself out of more money? What are they teaching kids these days?”

Roy grins. “I think it might be more like professional pride. He doesn’t want to just take the money and run.”

And wonder of wonders, Roy’s voice settles the tension in Ric’s body for once.

Ric bites that sweet bottom lip again before offering Jason a crooked smile. “Um. I could do my routine. It’s what I’m here for, right? Sir?"

After another slow sweep over the dancer’s outfit, Jason can’t say he’d mind seeing him move. He catches Roy’s approving gaze.

“What do you think, Harper?”

Roy steps closer. “A chance to have one of Gotham’s finest at our mercy? I’m in.”

Jason grins. “Then put the music on. Looks like we got entertainment for the night.”

 

* * *

 

Dick arrives at the precinct in disarray. His hair lacks its artful tousle, a ring of pink bruises is barely visible beneath his collar, and he refuses to take off his sunglasses. He sits at his computer for three hours, typing quickly, frustration and determination waring on his face between drags of black coffee.

He’s eventually pulled from his thoughts by a low whistle and a freckled hand stretching over the computer screen. A deep frown furrows his brow when he looks up to find his longtime friend and favorite CSI staring at him, concerned.

Wally cuts off his screen and swivels his desk chair around. "Dude. Ten-minute break. You need it."

“Now’s not the time, Wally,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, no. I think now is definitely the time. What’s happened, Grayson?”

Dick stares at his best friend, forcing the blush from his cheeks by sheer will alone. There’s no good answer to that question, certainly not a short one. His plan to snoop around the club had backfired immediately, yet, the Grayson Luck had manifested. Instead of winding up in a back alley with broken kneecaps, he'd been taken to the head of the Outlaw syndicate himself. What little information Todd and Harper let slip wasn’t enough for anything. He'd offered a dance to buy time. Time that allowed for a few more threads of information. While Dick began a slow stripping routine, Todd and Harper sipped on their cognac and let some things to fall through the cracks, mostly about their efforts to neutralize whatever war Sionis wanted to instigate. Dick had moved closer, a single lap dance in mind, and then he’d leave. Things didn’t end with a dance. They couldn’t, not when Dick had so utterly enjoyed the spread of Jason’s thighs beneath him and the rough strength in Roy’s hands as they turned him every way but loose. They were dangerous men focusing all their attention on him. A touch had become a kiss. The kiss a caress, and the next thing Dick knows, he’s lying across the desk taking a deep pounding while another man’s come slid down his thigh.

It was the single hottest thing he’d ever experienced, and it thoroughly compromised his entire investigation.

He closes his eyes.

“A complication happened, Wally. But Don’t worry. I can fix it. I know I can.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea in this universe that I wanted to complete for RoyDick week. Of course, the idea needed to be set up.... Then a wild plot and/or subplot appeared. Now I have to get Dick to Roy. Basically, in this chapter a good time was not enjoyed by neither the writer nor RoyDick or JoyDick.
> 
> But we're getting there!

Wally finds the flyer on the passenger side dashboard sitting on top of a stack of junk mail with a bit of a coffee splash along the edges.

“What’s this?” Wally picks up the flyer before Dick can react. He reads over the text once and then a second time aloud, voice rising in shocked humor. And then he laughs so hard he knocks his head against the window.

“Oh shit! Grayson? How the hell did you wind up with this?”

Wally slaps the center of the paper causing the illustrated legs to buckle oddly around the signature gold pole that brands Pole-Her-Rize as Gotham’s premiere place for fitnessuality.

“A lady at the Java Joint was passing them out a few days ago. I didn’t want to turn her down?”

“I know it’s been a while, but couldn’t you just ask for her number? Because this is just a weird move, dude. Like, why would you think pole dancing classes will be your in? Unless.” Wally’s face lights up. “Unless she invited you to a private show?”

“Dude. Gross.” Dick snatches the flyer away from him at the next light and sets it back in its proper place.

That hadn’t been the case at all. Kaysia, the Pole-Her-Rize owner and instructor, just happened to see Dick catch the door to Java Joint on his heel and smoothly pivot to help a lady maneuver her bags and baby carrier all without dropping his frappuccino. She’d approached him once the lady secured everything and offered Dick her deepest thanks.

“Please don’t take offense to what I’m about to say to you,” Kaysia began, in her brassy uptown Gotham voice. “But have you considered an alternative dance fitness class? You have the moves for it. No really, I can tell.”

After a quick chat, Dick had agreed to take the flyer. Now, he can’t bring himself to throw it away, even if he has no use for the classes.

“She’s working hard to bring in clients. I feel bad throwing it away. Thought about putting it up at the city gym, but if the wrong person sees it, we’ll be pulled into another training session.”

“It’s good advertising though,” Wally concedes. “I mean, it certainly caught my attention.” He stares at the image for a long moment, a thoughtful hum buzzing in his throat. “You think it’s something Donna would be interested in?”

This time Dick is the one who bursts into laughter. “What makes you think she hasn’t already tried it?”

“Really,” Wally mutters, cheeks heating. “Oh.”

 

* * *

 

After grabbing coffee from the break room, Dick returns to find an unassuming file box on his desk. He approaches it gingerly horrified by the sudden appearance. A quick glance around confirms his fears. Out of the eight manned desks, the only desks with sagging file boxes were his, Cruz, and Ronson, who were also away from their respective workspaces.

“What is this?” he moans, peering around the room at the detectives who suddenly have pressing business with their computer screens. He could’ve sworn that Cold Case day was tomorrow, and yes, checking the digital calendar tomorrow is the 24th and damnit, a holiday.

Dick groans again. How did he forget the holiday? He never should’ve left his desk.

Johnson pauses at his side and with the air of a woman who dodged a bullet, says, “Would you look at that? Cold cases came a day early for all the slacking boys and girls.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, waving her away. “Don’t think you guys are getting away with this.”

“It’s finally your time to shine, boy wonder.” She darts away with a grin.

Cold case review is one of many tasks assigned to GCPD detectives that doesn’t appear on the official job listings. Having fresh eyes on a case, new resources and technology is necessary to bring justice for the forgotten crimes. But cold case review is typically given to detectives who have weak caseloads. After closing his burglary investigation and with his major investigation on hold, Dick is due for cold case review. Besides, it’s Montoya and Lee who have the hot hand right now, stacking evidence and making cases for the DA. In the past six weeks, their work has started the inexorable dismantling of the Sionis Group’s hold on Gotham’s northside.

And it all started with a rather conveniently timed anonymous tip.

He wishes he could be sure it was Roy and Jay—Todd and Harper who were behind the GPD’s success against Sionis, but he has no proof and no evidence to tie to his hunch. In fact, all his leads seem to have fizzled leaving Dick with a disappointed captain and a final bruise fading along his hipbone.

The stray thought immediately sends Dick back to the office, the demanding hands on his body and the soft words whispered into his skin. He resists the urge to place fingertips against the bruise and push down so he can feel the lingering pain shoot through him. He’s got to focus, put his head back in the game.

Sighing, Dick sinks into his chair. He pulls the first file, near overflowing with reports, interviews, and evidence logs, and begins his review.

It takes four hours to begin a preliminary read of the first investigation, coded CC791 – Jones. The Jones case is a forty-two-year-old robbery homicide with extensive case notes. The previous review made no progress, but that was ten years ago, ten years before the recent technology upgrades throughout the department. Dick orders the fingerprint evidence to be reevaluated, the previous suspect list run through the system, and requisitions the interview tapes for viewing in record room four tomorrow. There will be a delay between his requests and receiving results, so Dick begins preparing his own report to add to the record before setting the file aside.

The next case file thin with comparison, a single police report, sixty pages of notes, a series of annotated interviews, and newspaper clippings. A quick glance has his eyebrows raising high.

Gotham has a colorful cast of people who shaped the fate of the city, but in Dick’s opinion, few are as captivating as the organized crime families he worked to expel from the streets. This cold case involved the disappearance of three members from the now defunct syndicate run by Oswald “Penguin” Cobblepot. The victim’s names have the ring of crime drama about them: Sharky, the enforcer, Willy T., the bagman, and Fancy Finnegan, the loyal soldier. There’s even a photograph of the Penguin himself climbing up the stone steps to the police department to give a statement. As with many cases surrounding the families of organized crime, there is a solid cone of silence surrounding victims’ associates. The detectives only confirmed familial ties with Mrs. Marcy Finnegan, who reported the disappearance of her son and his friends. The bodies were never found, and a crime scene was never established, so the evidence is non-existent.

Reading the information surrounding the events is like stepping through mirror tinted by corruption and greed. Dick kicks his feet onto the desk and leans back in the chair and lets the details and lack of substantial evidence take his mind off the present.

At the end of his shift, Dick packs the files and returns to his apartment for takeout and another restless night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to the very short-lived show "Powerless" for the idea of Bruce Wayne penning a novel. It wasn't perfect, but it was amazing!

The first cold snap of winter surges through Gotham taking the entire city by surprise. Dick left his apartment without his gloves, and he spends the quick trot down the sidewalk alternating between blowing on his fingers and digging them into his jacket pockets. He arrives at his destination soon enough, accelerating when he sees a tall, raven-haired beauty waving at him, smile beaming like a lantern in the dark.

Donna pulls him into a tight embrace that chases away some of the cold. “You made it.”

“I can’t believe you convinced me to come,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

“You loved the last class we took. There was no way you’d miss this one. Now come on before we miss the warm up.” They embrace a second time before hustling through the cheerful entrance to the dance studio.

Weak winter sun floods through the picture window giving the small entryway an airy appearance. The walls are decorated with stylized posters behind glass. At the opposite end of the room stands a tall desk with a register decorated with pink gym towels with the Pole-Her-Rize slogan and other dance accoutrements in an enclosed showcase cabinet. Dick eyes the golden tassels on the nipple pasties before he’s dragged through the open doorway in the back.

A diminutive black woman with short sister-braids and a brilliant smile walks over to them. The smile brightens when she recognizes Dick.

“Oh my god, you came!” Kaysia exclaims, striding up to Dick. She looks up at Donna and sighs wistfully. “And you brought a friend?”

“My best friend, Donna. Donna, this is Kaysia, the owner and instructor,” Dick says, completing the introduction.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Donna. And Grayson of course, so glad you decided to give us a chance. I’ve been eager to engage men for this class. The numbers are growing.” Kaysia nods towards a tall, lean man stretching by the mirrored wall.

“We’ve actually taken several fitness classes together,” says Donna. “I’m a bit of a class addict. Inspire and Perspire Cycling, Better Buns Boot Camp, Tai-Chi Tango, belly dancing.” She looks at Dick. “What else?”

“We did capoeira for a year before the instructor moved,” Dick adds.

“Yes. Loved that one,” says Donna. “And we took a similar class about three years ago, but there wasn’t a lot of interest, so the instructor moved to the next fad.”

“I think you’ll love this course,” Kaysia says. “It’s introductory, but I can scale to keep it fresh and fierce for all experience levels. The first three weeks will focus on learning basic moves and increasing your flexibility and strength before we transition to the pole. We’ll have a few floor routines for the ones who are eager to show off at home.”

“And for us professionals?” interrupts a strident voice. The classes other male participant walks up to them. With his golden hair, golden smile he looks like a movie poster brought to life.

Dick didn’t want to ask, but those sparkling blue eyes were practically begging. “Professionals?”

“Booster Gold at your service, two-time winner of the Eastern Seaboard Pole Dancing Championship and former,” he coughs into a fist, muffling the word, “Headliner at Starzz Gentlemen’s Club. You can call me MJ.”

Dick takes the proffered hand and is somehow unsurprised to find a business card left in his palm. MJ turns to shake Donna’s hand next.

“Don’t worry. I have a few moves for you too, Mr. Professional,” Kaysia says, an amused smile quirking her lips. A small bell sounds turning her attention to the door. “Be right back.”

Donna pockets her business card and Dick follows suit. “Why are you taking an intro course?”

“It’s the only tier available right now,” MJ replies with a shrug. “But I’ve been following Kaysia’s showcases on VidBox for a long time. When I found out she was opening a studio, I ran down here to sign up. You can’t stay on top if you’re not willing to adapt your routine.”

“I suppose not,” Dick says slowly. Something about that phrasing strikes a chord in him and he snaps his fingers when it comes to him. “That sounds like a line out of Ted Kord’s invitational speech from the Ted Talks series.”

MJ’s smile freezes over. “Really? I suppose he’s just recycling material. I picked that one up from his, uh, his last book.”

“You’re a fan?” Donna asks.

“There was a sale at the bookstore, and I had to choose between _Wayne or Lose_ and _Kut the Kord_.” He extends elegant hands and mimes weight those options against one another. “Kord is the obvious choice.”

“Bold words to say in Gotham.” Dick laughs when MJ rolls his eyes.

“Maybe, but Kord is a genius, a literal genius, and he has such good advice. He can change your life.”

“How has he changed your life?” asks Donna as she leans against Dick. She’s always drawn to passion. To their surprise, MJ flushes a little and scratches at the back of his hand. Nervous ticks that catch Dick’s attention after how confidently MJ announced his alter ego.

“I guess. I guess he taught me how to believe in myself. It’s not always being daring or taking chances. Sometimes it’s about sticking to it if the plan doesn’t work the first time. You double down on the idea, put in more work, and believe you can do it. Because sometimes what you need more than boldness is time and patience.” MJ finishes quietly, a solemn set to his face. And then shakes himself. “At least, that’s what the book says.”

There’s something about the earnestness in MJ’s voice that sounds like he believes in those words, and those words resonate within Dick. They’re definitely something he’s needed to hear, especially with the way the Outlaw case has withered on the vine. He nods slowly.

“Sounds like I should pick it up,” Dick says, already planning to purchase a copy the second he’s out of the class.

Donna smiles. “You know, Ted Kord should probably have you on commission. You’re a great salesman.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” MJ pulls on a dazzling grin. “When you put this mug in front of the people, you won’t lose.”

They make small talk while more people filter into the classroom. MJ has a twitchy personality masked by an overwhelming confidence, but he’s instantly taken by Donna’s charm and that’s always a good sign. Kaysia greets the next few students all with a wave, approaches a few who look, to Dick’s eye, nervous, before rounding back to the front of the classroom.

Finally, Kaysia calls for everyone’s attention, saying, “I’m going to put on some music, so you guys can start getting comfortable. In ten minutes, I’ll start leading us through warmups, and we can get started.”

After setting their coats and bags against the benches, Dick and Donna stake a claim on floorspace near the front of the classroom. The almost jog from the EL to the dance studio warmed Dick's muscles, so he begins to stretch in preparation for the day’s lesson.

The door swings open while Dick is on the floor, nose pressed to his knees while stretching his hamstrings and lower back. The stretches seem to sweep away weeks of tension and guilt from Dick’s body. He rises slowly, hands straight in the air and bends at the waist, reaching further, feeling his muscles extend. Suddenly, a strong hand grasps his wrist and Donna’s hair sweeps over his shoulder.

“Richard,” she hisses into his ear. “Take a look at your ten o’clock and tell me I’m not dreaming.”

Dick lifts his head slightly to find a stunningly beautiful woman shrugging out of a thick jacket. She’s tall, taller than Donna maybe, with deep, golden skin, and heavy black hair that falls from a high ponytail to midway down her back. She’s strongly muscled in the way Dick’s come to recognize in dancers, slender refinement and graceful motion. She turns green eyes their direction and offers them both a challenging smile. Straight on, her beauty is captivating.

“Whoa,” he huffs, ducking his head again.

“I know,” Donna sighs.

“Hey, you’re dating someone,” Dick says, nudging her slightly. “My best friend.”

Donna nudges him back. “And don’t you ever forget it. Still. I’m not blind.”

The warmups start with Kaysia at the front of the class. The music is moderate, the movements simple. As the tempo increases, the steps become a little more intricate, and Dick can see how overtime, the warm up might weave into the floor routine Kaysia mentioned. He’s sweating lightly afterwards, the entire classroom is, and the rush of endorphins banishes most of the work stress Dick’s been carrying for the past few weeks. He and Donna exchange a glance and nod in synch. Coming to Pole-Her-Rize was the right choice.

From atop her small riser, Kaysia eyes them all before reaching for her phone.

“I was planning on taking it easy on y’all, but I think you guys are up for a challenge. So, the training wheels are going off.”

The music changes from upbeat pop to a proper club banger with a screwed voice tuned down voice chanting, “ _twerk smthn twerk smthn twerk smthn_ ,” over a strong clapping rhythm.

Kaysia turns around, leans forward and starts moving. “Come on!” She shouts, slaps her ass. “Let me see you work it.”

Donna whoops, and Dick twists his head to see everyone taking a similar position. Even the shy students in the back are into it, shaking away the nerves with every clap of the beat. Donna twists at the waist and points at him mouthing, “Come on, let me see you shake dat ass,” with the music. Heaving a put-upon sigh, Dick leans forward.

“Do not take any videos,” he mumbles to his best friend and bane before bouncing lightly on his feet. “And if anybody asks, my name is Ric.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last of the framework seeds have been planted in this chapter. It's all downhill from here!

In Dick’s experience, nothing important happened on a Wednesday. Wednesdays were average, tepid like forgotten bathwater, a subtle reminder that the weekend is nearby but not close enough. However, this Wednesday is different. 

All morning, a steady line of detectives have been dropping by Dick’s desk bringing tales of cases past and a few questions about their current caseload. Dick, aware that achieving a strong working relationship within the detective’s bullpen is equally as important as establishing his own clearance rate, does his best to offer opinions. Having the detectives talk to him instead of at him is worth skipping his self-appointed lunch break. Validation always is.

Secretly, he’s glad that the attention is coming now and not two weeks ago when he and Donna started attending their classes at Pole-Her-Rize. His back would be twinging from the leaning and bending he’s doing today. As a former acrobat, Dick’s always been limber, but this class is two parts dance, three parts core control, and all brutally fun exercise that he’s only now recovering from. He smiles, nods, and offers whatever he can to the people who just happen to swing by his office, casebook in hand.

It’s not until Montoya offers a curt nod after closing her notes that he understands the reason for all the attention.

“And Grayson? Good job on the Jones case,” she says, a hint of pride in her grin. “That one’s stumped many a great detective across the city. Including me.”

Dick freezes at his desk. “Thank you, detective,” he manages. Once she’s cleared the row, he spins towards his computer and searches until he finds the detective assignment roster.

The Jones case is at the top of the page, coded CC791 – Jones, and assigned to a pair of detectives due to emergent evidence as discovered by Dick Grayson. Well, it lists his badge number, but it might as well have his name highlighted right beside it. Dick’s eyes skip down to the assignment report devouring the concluding report. By the end of the brief statement, he’s fighting a triumphant grin. His meticulous review had uncovered an inconsistency in the shifts assigned to workers before the robbery, which led to a possible suspect after all this time.

The crime scene photos had tugged at Dick for the longest time. Eventually, he’d began questioning the positions of the bodies on the ground. He’d seen how the only person injured had been rolled on his side so the blood wouldn’t seep, and it clicked. The victim’s brother-in-law’s nephew. He’d forward the report to his superior without trepidation, and it had paid off. Dick lets out a slow breath while he wrestled with the pride and relief war in his mind. 

After his unsanctioned sting attempt at Club 276, Dick’s felt...conflicted about his behavior, methods, and results. Even now, he’s not sure what he’d been thinking or how he’d made it out alive. Concentrating on the cold cases had at least allowed him to push through the worst of the fear of discovery. The guilt remains though, because Dick can’t lie to himself. He’d enjoyed every heart-thumping moment of that night. And for that reason alone, he must fix what he’s effectively ruined.

And he can. He’s just proven that he is still capable of doing his job.

Confidence bolstered by headway made in a forty-year-old cold case, Dick enters the database to look at his old case files for the first time in weeks. He clicks through the evidence for the most recent blemish on the Red Hoods’ meager—in comparison to other criminal organizations—records until he finds MP12298 – Dent. He can recite the details of this case in his sleep, including the order of events, times, witness statements, and chain of evidence logs. With enough time, he will connect Jason Todd to the mysterious disappearance and reappearance of the city’s district attorney. He just needs to do what any good detective does when a case goes cold. Start at the beginning.

Not long into his refresher, Dick receives a short summons from Lieutenant Rohrbach. The email is curt, as are all things from the detective’s supervising officer:  _ My office. Now. _

Amy Rohrbach is a dedicated officer and a logistical genius who manages to play the appearance game mandated by city hall while keeping her bullpen clean. In a city like Gotham that takes more than hard work. It takes strength and power too. Sitting behind her desk, brown hair pulled back in a loose chignon, Rohrbach radiates both.

After exchanging pleasantries, Dick sat across from the desk, and then proceeds to sit frozen as Rohrbach dismantles his reimagined plan in a few short words.

“Excuse me?” His voice is a little loud. Possibly, it’s from the ringing in his ears.

“We’re closing all investigations into Jason Todd, the Red Hoods, and Outlaw Enterprises.” Rohrbach repeats. “The DA’s office is results-oriented, and we are providing them with results on several high-profile case like busting two of the Sionis group’s shell companies. Like busting the fraudulent shipping operations at the north shore pier. And now the Jones case. Good job with that, Grayson.”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, I’ve only done what I was trained to do,” Dick says carefully. “And I am applying that training to the Red Hood case.”

“Yes, but also, no. Yes, it was routine, yes it was by the books, yet you looked at the case differently and bam,” she claps her hands together, “We get immediate results. You’ve got a good eye and good judgement. That’s why I want you to put the Red Hood case down. We have real work to be done here.”

“With all due respect—”

Rohrbach lifts a brow. “More respect? I am honored.”

Flushing, Dick tries again. “If you trust my judgement on the Jones case, trust my judgement for this. Jason Todd is connected to the Dent case. We’re on the right track.”

“Jason Todd is a private citizen of good standing in the city of Gotham,” Rohrbach recites, pleasantly stilted. “He pays his taxes, abides by all ordinances and codes. And he is not to be pursued on some sort of vendetta.”

“Vendetta! Seriously, lieutenant? This isn’t a vendetta?” Judging by the expression on the lieutenant's face, he hadn’t done quite a good job of reining in his temper.

Rohrbach switches tracts, leaning forward. “What is it then?

“What is what? Lieutenant, come on. This—”

“If this so-called investigation into the Red Hoods isn’t a vendetta, what is it? You don’t have leads, you don’t have evidence, circumstantial or otherwise, you don’t have witnesses. Grayson, you don’t even have a crime scene or a crime.”

“Lieutenant. Amy.”

“And you’re not a detective. Keep making the wrong kind of moves, and you never will. However, you keep working those cold cases like you are, proving yourself during this training rotation, and you’ll have your stripes. Soon.”

Their eyes meet, and Dick knows what is expected, knows what he should say. He goes with the facts instead.

“Dent goes missing in the middle of an investigation that would propel him from DA to Mayor? Then he reappears under mysterious circumstances, drops all charges against Todd? This is not a coincidence.”

“I know you’ve seen the outcome of  _ that  _ investigation. The charges were dropped because on and off paper, Todd runs a clean business.”

Dick’s fingers curl besides his leg, frustrated because there’s no way he can dispute that statement. Todd’s business isn’t just clean, it sports a halo. His financial holdings have been thoroughly investigated by the finest legal and financial accounting team the city could find to corroborate their own findings. 

Within a year of consolidating the territory formerly run by the Penguin, Todd began sweeping socio-economic projects in the neighborhoods. He’s opened three employment centers and started local business to create a system that teaches the unemployed necessary skills and then moves them into sustainable jobs in their neighborhood. He has a recidivism program for former convicts, gang members, and prostitutes. Todd donates to after school programs, sports, arts, and music programs, and food programs. He’s even personally spearheaded a voter drive for each local election.   

But for all the good, he’s done, Dick knows there is a connection between Harvey Dent’s disappearance and Jason Todd. He  _ knows _ it. He just doesn’t have evidence to support this gut feeling. No one had been able to find any. Rohrbach knows it, because she simply stares at Dick, reading exasperation at the edge of his posture.

“Do you have evidence?”

“The security footage,” Dick says quickly.

Rohrbach shakes her head. “Already disproven in court. New, conclusive evidence? Insights to this case that will lead us somewhere?”

Dick clenches his teeth against the bitter truth that he doesn’t. Just his gut and even that’s been compromised.

“No, lieutenant.”

“Alright then. You have no new evidence, and I have a directive from on high that allows me to free one of my rising detectives to work the things that make our city safer.” Rohrbach folds her arms across her chest, gaze hardened.

“I’m about to ask you a question, Grayson. It’s a simple yes or no question, one I won’t ask you again. Please, consider your answer very carefully. Because one will get you where you want to be and the other will bust you back down to patrol so fast your head will spin.”

Anger and anticipation bubble in Dick’s gut, a chemical compound that sets his teeth on edge while he waits for Rohrbach’s pointed silence to end.

“Now, are you going to let this go, Officer Grayson?”

 

* * *

 

After exchanging pleasantries and a recount of Wally’s trip to the old-fashioned dark chocolate shoppe uptown, he finally gets to the point of his call. It’s exactly what Dick expected it to be.

“Are you sure you can’t come out tonight?”

Sighing, Dick looks down at the laptop balanced on his knee. “I’m sure. Rohrbach laid down the law. I need to help the detectives stack cases or else I’ll be back on the beat early.”

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

Something about the question sounds off. Dick closes the file folder to give Wally his fullest attention.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.  _ Nothing _ ,” Wally stresses the word after Dick’s disagreeing hum.

“Go ahead and tell me. Wally,” Dick says when Wally goes quiet. “Wallace.”

Wally groans. “Gross, man, don’t call me that.”

“You gonna explain why Donna gets to call you that and not me? I’ve known you way longer.”

“She sounds like a sexy professor trying to get my attention. You sound like you’re disappointed in me.”

Dick retches heartily into the phone, stopping only when Wally’s bright laughter overpowers his obnoxious noises.

“Fine, fine. Just feeling awkward about tonight,” Wally confesses. “The only reason I’m out here is because you and Donna insisted. And now you’re bailing. I don’t know. Just feels awkward being around your people without you.”

“My people?”

“Strippers.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “Wallace, relax. You’re funny, you’re easy to talk to, and you’ve got the most wonderful woman in the world at your side. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. You say that now, but these people are on another level and then. Oh. Fuck.”

“What?”

“Some freaking model just came up and hugged Donna.”

“Tall, long black hair?”

“Practically to her freaking knees? Yeah.”

“That’s Komand’r. She’s in the class.”

“She’s unreal,” Wally breathes. “No wonder you guys wanted to come out tonight.”

Dick laughs. “Have a good night, Wallace. And remember, I’m using Ric with those people, so don’t screw around. In fact, don’t even talk about me.”

“Me and my confused boner have way more important things to do than think about you.  _ Ric _ .”

They end the call with a promise to meet for dinner later next week, just the three of them. Talking to Wally right now is a pleasurable distraction from the day. One that was far too short. He straightens the laptop that has started to slide from his legs to the couch cushions.

For the better part of the evening, Dick had been putting all his energy into the rest of the assigned cold cases. Work in the form of paper files, cold case books from years past and digital files on the computer, surround him. But his eyes slide over the details, jumping from today’s conversation his lieutenant and the case he’s supposed to be working. His case. The thing that was supposed to make him. They won’t let him be.

Dick had been the last official officer associated with the case after months the city’s full law enforcement and legal presence processing the case. His role had been one of glorified fact-checker and archivist. If only he had made headway. Then Rohrbach would know this isn’t some obsession from a rookie detective. There must be some way to get the case reopened. Something that would help Dick fix the colossal mistake he made when he encountered Todd and Harper at their club.

Sighing, Dick drags fingers through his hair. Rohrbach had he couldn’t waste his time or departmental resources. Nothing about looking through things on his own time. And his mind really could use a break. Dick withdraws his private USB stick from his work bag and slides it into the laptop. It’s always worth looking at things from another angle.  

He clicks through the folders until he finds the footage investigators pulled from security cameras on Dent property and the surrounding area.

Black and white footage begins to play revealing a man prowling outside of the Dent home two days before his disappearance. The timestamp reads 12:47 when a shadow slides into frame from the east side of the roadway. Close analysis placed the suspect as male, approximately 6”2, and a high physical athleticism. The suspect scales a stone wall and disappears. Less than ten minutes later, the body slides back over the wall, dusts off his gloved hands and shoulders. He stands for a moment, lazy slouch of wide shoulders, then turns his head. Light flashes over him illuminating a flash of light over a light-colored mask that covered his facial features and a hoodie falling over his head and neck.

Since joining the Dent case’s close-out team, Dick has run the clip until it became ingrained in his memory. The flash of light across the mask, the set of those broad shoulders. The same slope he’d seen them take when Todd finally spoke on camera at the top of the courthouse steps. He knows it’s Todd. He just knows it.

A shrill ringing cuts through Dick’s thoughts. He rubs at his neck sore from curling over his laptop, then reaches for his phone. He blinks, confused when confronted by a blank screen. No missed calls.

A phone rings again. It’s close, in the next room. Dick leaps to his feet once he recognizes the ringtone. He scrambles down the hall, sliding around the corner to his bedroom.

On the dresser sits an unassuming cellphone, nearly five years out of date and ten models behind the current big thing. It buzzes gently, a spritely synth sound he’d become accustomed to while working vice. It’s emergencies only for the few people who had the number and needed help from “Ricky,” his alter-ego.

He stares at the unknown number while deciding to pick up. The last three calls he’d received were from automated sources, likely scams, but it’s never stopped him before. Not when he knows people need help. The call stops mid ring.

Dick nearly jumps when it explodes in a burst of light and vibrations and the chime of his notification tone. He keys the unlock code and opens the message.

“Holy coincidences,” he hisses. The bruises have finally faded, but the memories still burn brightly in Dick’s mind, like muffled music being replaced by his moans and the demands being whispering across his skin. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, Dick can hear one of those same voices in his ear.

_ This is Harper. I want to talk if you have the time. Call me. _


End file.
